


feels better biting down

by keptein



Series: vampire akaashi [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Other, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptein/pseuds/keptein
Summary: "Do I taste good?" Koutarou asks.Akaashi pauses in the middle of wiping the blood from their mouth with the back of their hand. Red is smeared across their lips like makeup, and Koutarou's thigh aches more in response. "Hm?""Like, compared to other humans? Do I taste good? I'm blood type B."





	feels better biting down

**Author's Note:**

> belated happy new year's, i still love bokuaka.

"Do I taste good?" Koutarou asks.

Akaashi pauses in the middle of wiping the blood from their mouth with the back of their hand. Red is smeared across their lips like makeup, and Koutarou's thigh aches more in response. "Hm?"

"Like, compared to other humans? Do I taste good? I'm blood type B."

"You taste fine," Akaashi sighs, reaching for bandages to press onto Koutarou's thigh. He's sitting on a chair in Akaashi's living room, a cold, spartan space, and his shorts are pushed up to bare the vein along the inside of his thigh - punctured, now, by Akaashi's sharp teeth. It will heal soon, but Akaashi still wraps it up with care, long, delicate fingers smoothing down the white cotton.

"Do you have a favourite blood type?"

"No," Akaashi says. "At least, I don't think so." They stand up. "I'm going to wash my face, please don't fall asleep."

Koutarou nods, lids already lowered. "I was googling it, and apparently pineapple makes you sweeter, so I thought maybe..." But Akaashi has already gone to the bathroom.

The couch is a million miles away, yet so tempting, covered in soft cushions and woollen blankets. Koutarou looks at it longingly. His limbs and eyelids are filled with concrete, and moving is impossible, but he wishes so deeply to be in the midst of those cosy pillows. And Akaashi said not to fall asleep, but maybe he could have just a short nap, just until they get back...

Koutarou's head falls against a warm chest, arms wrapping around his back and under his knees to lift him up off the chair. He makes a murmur of protest - he _can_ walk, he just needs to open his eyes again for that, and that is very difficult - but before he can protest further, Akaashi sits him down on the couch. Koutarou snuggles into them, blindly seeking out their warmth.

"Open your mouth," Akaashi says, and Koutarou does so obediently, letting Akaashi press slices of fruit between his lips. "I told you not to fall asleep."

"I didn't," Koutarou says drowsily through a mouthful of food. Akaashi sighs, but it sounds like they are smiling. Koutarou can't lift his head to check. He swallows the fruit, slowly feeling the lethargy slide away. "Thank you."

"Are you warm enough?"

Koutarou nods, even though his knees are still cold. Akaashi puts a blanket over him, wrapping him up like a burrito. "Can you read minds..?"

"No."

"Good," Koutarou says, sleepy and warm. "Can I sleep now?"

"Why?"

"'Cause 'm sleepy."

"No, I mean -" Akaashi rubs their forehead. Their fingernails are blunt and painted, and Koutarou watches them move across their face. From where he's snuggled, he looks up at Akaashi. The ceiling light is just behind their head, backlighting them like a… well. "Why is it good that I can't read minds?"

"Oh." Koutarou blinks and laughs. "I've got secrets, obviously!"

Akaashi frowns. "Oh."

"'S okay, 'Kaashi, don't look sad."

"I'm not sad, I'm just... surprised."

This is the problem. Akaashi wants to know everything about Koutarou, and they want to keep him safe and warm and fed, but they don't want his heart, and they don't want him to have theirs. Koutarou hates secrets, they sting and they ache in the middle of the night, but they're better than losing this.

Akaashi is warm against his side. They tuck him in more firmly. "You can sleep now, Koutarou. I'll make sure you don't fall ill."

"You just want an excuse to keep me here," Koutarou mumbles, eyes closing. "I read about it, there's no reason I'd fall ill..."

Akaashi doesn't respond before Koutarou falls asleep, but there's a hand carding through his hair, which is all the answer he needs for now.

*

Kuroo disagrees. “Man, you should just tell them how you feel,” he says, noisily slurping noodles across the table. His long, angular frame makes a mockery of the tiny booth he’s squeezed them both into, and Koutarou looks at the spectacle of him eating with admiration.

“No! It’ll make it weird, and they’ll be unhappy, and then I won’t see them again. Besides…” Koutarou looks down at the table glumly. “I’m pretty sure they already know, ‘n they’re just not wanting to reject me outright.”

“You’re contradicting yourself,” Kuroo says. _Slurp slurp_ , say his noodles. He’s so terrible. Koutarou loves him. “You say if they knew how you felt, that would make them unhappy, but then you say that they already know. Are they unhappy now?”

“I don’t know! Maybe?”

“They don’t sound unhappy.”

“They clearly just want to stay FWBB, anyway,” Koutarou says, still downcast.

“FWBB?”

“Friends with blood benefits. Or friends with benefit blood. I made it up.”

Kuroo laughs into his noodles. “I see. You’re so odd, Bokuto. I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything - why are you afraid of this?”

Koutarou looks up at him, wide-eyed. Kuroo meets his gaze, calm and warm in the restaurant light. “That’s a big bomb to just drop on me like that,” he stutters out finally, panic relenting its vice grip on his throat. Restlessness itches in his calves, his shoulders, and he wants to run, but Kuroo isn’t going to hurt him. He’s safe, even though he forgets. He’s safe.

“Sorry.” Kuroo doesn’t look sorry, but his sharp lines soften. Koutarou has never told him how much time he spends being afraid, but he thinks Kuroo knows; no one could be this thoughtful by accident.

“Besides, I’m not _afraid,_ I just don’t wanna lose something I really like.”

Kuroo shrugs. “Well, you know what I think. Can it really be any worse than pining like this?”

“Definitely!” Koutarou says loudly, with a conviction he doesn’t feel.

*

Akaashi should frighten him. They do, sometimes, in the quarter breath before their teeth pierce his skin; in that fragment of a moment where Koutarou just has time to think, _god, they could kill me._ When their breath is warm over his thigh, and all his hairs are standing on end, and his heart is pounding, and all he wants is for them to bite down. They frighten him, then.

Well.

Some kind of frighten, anyway.

*

The bag of chocolates crinkles in Koutarou’s pocket. They're cherry flavoured and individually wrapped like little hearts. He opened one and immediately spat it out, but Akaashi will like them. They like a lot of things that Koutarou don't, like blood and most vegetables, and Koutarou can fold shapes out of the wrappings afterwards. It's a win-win, in his opinion, although any time he gets to hang out with Akaashi is half a win in and of itself.

He rubs his hands together, sparking warmth into his freezing fingers, and breathes into his scarf. This time of year has to be good for Akaashi - although they will never directly answer to whether they can go out in daylight or not, darkness most of the time must be handy. Koutarou thinks a lot about Akaashi, what they're like when he doesn't see them, what they're thinking about, what they've been through. It must be the same impulse that leads Akaashi to frown at Koutarou’s secrets; some subconscious desire to blur the boundaries between them, even as Akaashi works so hard to keep them clear.

Koutarou blows into his hands before reaching out to ring the doorbell, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a jiggle as he waits. He never needs many layers in Akaashi's apartment, as they keep it next to tropical, and he always forgets to wrap up for the walk over, leading to an awkward dance for heat preservation. After several long, cold minutes, Akaashi opens the door.

“Hello,” Koutarou says formally, “may I come in?”

“You don’t have to ask every time, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says and ushers him in, shaking their head at his pink nose.

“You do it!”

“You're going to make yourself sick, walking around like this.” Akaashi scolds him gently, taking his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it up. Koutarou smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck.

“I just forget… oh! I brought you a present.” He gets the chocolates out of his pocket, holding them out. When Akaashi takes them, their hands touch his, and Koutarou’s fingers tingle as warmth washes over them.

Akaashi leaves them on the dresser in their genkan, but unwraps one and pops it into their mouth, chewing with a considering expression. Koutarou looks on, excited and nervous.

“Well?”

“They're good,” Akaashi says, surprised. “I like them.”

Koutarou throws both his arms in the air, cheering. “Hooray!”

Akaashi’s smile is faint but definitely present, and they pull Koutarou close by his belt loops. “I suppose I have to thank you for this gift,” they say, voice low. It sends shivers down Koutarou’s spine.

“Oh, I didn't do it for a thank you,” Koutarou says breathlessly, watching Akaashi's mouth. It's true, but perhaps not true enough; or too true entirely.

Akaashi shakes their head. “I'm obliged to show my gratitude for any gift willingly given.”

“If you insist,” Koutarou says into their lips, the world fading away as Akaashi kisses him.

Akaashi kisses like an old god. Like someone so effortlessly powerful that gentility is a habit borne of necessity, like lit candles on cold stone, like the eye of a storm that knows its own nature. They cup his face, and Koutarou tastes metal and chocolate on their tongue, their hands cold against his burning cheeks.

Akaashi is not human, yet there is no other way to describe the gasp they let out as Koutarou grips their hips, a gasp that Koutarou greedily swallows down, pressing them into the wall as he deepens the kiss. Akaashi’s forced gentility creates an urge to dominate in Koutarou, to take and own, and Akaashi never seems to mind, even  if Koutarou knows that his aggression is only a frustrated attempt to make them react in kind. He can tell they want to - sometimes they hold his wrists down as they enter him, teeth snapping at his throat, but they always catch themselves, their grip turning gentle in a facsimile of the love they don’t have.

Koutarou grips their hips tighter at the thought. Akaashi moans, a sound that both sparks fire down his spine and clogs in his throat, like the disgusting, cloying chocolate is still there. He stops abruptly, head pressing against Akaashi’s shoulder. “Y’know I didn’t buy you chocolates just for this, right?” he mumbles.

Akaashi pauses, and then fingers are carding through his hair. “I know,” they say simply. “You wouldn’t lie.”

Koutarou swallows. The chocolates stay in his throat, big and painful. “For this, I would.”

“Bokuto-san…” Akaashi says, with pity in their voice. Koutarou closes his eyes hard, clenching his teeth, and then he surges up to kiss them again.

“Nevermind,” he tells their lips, thumbs stroking over the waistband of Akaashi’s pants.

Akaashi, with their infuriating gentility, lets it go, and they let Koutarou press them into their own bed, and they let him have what he wants of their body.

For Koutarou, that is enough. It has to be.

*

Afterwards, Koutarou spreads out on the bed like a starfish, sweat cooling across his body. “How come you never wanna drink from me during sex?”

Akaashi is sitting up against the headboard, writing in a notebook. The scratch of pen against paper has become an intimate sound. What they’re writing is a mystery, but they always write after sex, in the same white leather notebook. They stop writing for a moment. “I don’t want to mix it.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Koutarou says hopefully, putting his head against their hip, careful to avoid the temptation of peering up at their book.

“I know,” Akaashi says. Their pen returns to the paper, sharp, rhythmic strokes as they write.

Koutarou pulls the covers over his naked body. “Oh - sorry.”

“No, you haven’t done anything wrong,” Akaashi says, not looking up from what they’re writing. “I just can’t afford to get carried away with you, Bokuto-san.”

“Oh,” Koutarou says again, pressing a smile into their hip. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“That would be one way to think of it,” Akaashi agrees, and Koutarou laughs, rubbing his face against their cool skin. Again, but with more enthusiasm: this is enough. It has to be.

*

“Are you spending the holidays with us, Koutarou?” his mom asks him. His phone is warm against his ear.

“No, I have to stay here and work,” Koutarou tells her. He’s helping the post office on his block deliver New Year’s greetings. The trip to his parents’ house and back can’t reasonably be done in a day, and Akaashi usually messages him at short notice.

“That’s a shame,” his mother says sincerely. He doesn’t see her enough; his younger siblings still live at home, and there’s no room for him anymore. He can only justify taking up space in the bustle for special occasions, which don’t come along very often any more. In the city, he doesn’t have anything that feels as familiar and permanent as his parents’ house, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be his own apartment. His mother continues, “Make sure you don’t work too hard, and see some friends!”

“I will,” he promises, and their conversation ends just before the pathetic truth of his situation sets in. It’s his favourite holiday, celebrating the new year, and instead of being with his family, he’s going to be delivering mail and hoping for a message from someone who won’t even kiss him without an explicit excuse.

He knows how he’d want the night to go. Akaashi would call him, sweet as anything, and say, _I’m going to the festival tonight, will you come with me?_ And Koutarou would say, _yes._ Akaashi would pick him up. They’d wander the streets of the festival, eating toshikoshii soba and warming their hands on each other. Then they’d go to the shrine, and in the hidden grounds outside - the perfect secluded spot for watching the fireworks - Akaashi would pull him down ever so slightly to kiss him. Koutarou would joke and say, _this feels like a date,_ and Akaashi would say, _yes_ , shyly, like they had planned that all along, and Koutarou would say,

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until the walls of his apartment bounce the words back at him. Even then, it takes him a moment to react, looking down at the phone in his hands like the words came from the other end. That can’t be right, what he just said. He and Akaashi are just casual, and even if Koutarou has developed a smidgeon of a crush, it is only that, something pitifully small and unrealistic, which will pass on its own. Nothing like _love,_ like fantasising about holding hands, that wasn’t the deal, that wasn’t in the contract that his brain made his heart sign the first time Akaashi put their hand on his thigh.

His knees bang against the floor as Koutarou drops, crawling under his dinner table and breathing deeply. His brain is yelling at his heart, but he doesn’t have the energy to punish himself, every limb heavy with humiliation and sorrow. The phone is still in his hand. He lifts his head and it hits the new, low ceiling, the unexpected pain snapping him out of his haze for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Kuroo. Do you have any plans for New Year’s?”

“I’m taking the train to my family,” Kuroo responds. “What’s up, are you okay? You sound like…” he hesitates. Koutarou swallows and runs a hand over his face, wiping it on his shirt.

“I’m fine. I’m working over the holidays, but I don’t wanna celebrate alone.”

“I understand,” Kuroo says. “What about Akaashi? They don’t seem to have a very demanding social life.”

“No,” Koutarou says with difficulty. “No, sorry, no. I’ll - I’ll figure something out, thank you. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” Kuroo says, and then he fades away as Koutarou rests the phone on his knee. He lets himself imagine, for a second, calling Akaashi to ask. Maybe they’d even say yes, and Koutarou would either spend the night dozing after they’d drank from him, or they’d be in bed together, and Akaashi would touch him so lightly and impersonally that Koutarou could be anyone at all.

Both options hurt. Koutarou wipes his face again, embarrassed, and resigns himselfto staying under the table until he feels able to take up space in the world again.

It might be a long wait.

*

On New Year’s Eve, the post office shuts at 10. Despite his best efforts, they won’t give Koutarou any more work; his temporary boss smiles at him and says, “Go spend time with someone you love, Bokuto-san!”

Koutarou grimaces, but she doesn’t catch it, and way too soon, he’s outside in the cold and alone. There’s a small festival in town, selling street food and sparklers for the poor souls who don’t have family to celebrate with, and he tells himself to go and at least eat something nice, but his treacherous feet take him over a secluded bridge out of the way. He stops to look at the water, frowning and huddled in on himself.

“Hey,” a guy calls from below, standing by the waterfront. Koutarou can’t see much of his face, but distant fireworks catch on his teeth, glinting in the dark. “You free?”

It’s been three weeks and two days since Akaashi fed from him. His body can take it. Impulsively, Koutarou walks further down the bridge, vaulting over the wooden rail as soon as muddy grass awaits him.

“Hey,” the vampire says again, and grins. “Eager?”

Koutarou flushes hotly. He’s not one of those people, he’s just desperate to overwrite any memory of Akaashi so his body will stop this painful longing. Maybe seeing that what they’ve shared is nothing special will free him, or even just a corner of him. None of that is this man’s business, and Koutarou grunts so at him as he pulls his scarf off. The vampire holds his hands up. He’s got enough sense not to insult his dinner, much as Koutarou may be a willing one.

“Don’t give me anything nasty,” Koutarou warns. The vampire makes a show of running his tongue over his teeth in response. Their saliva acts as a natural disinfectant, which means a vampire can drink even diseased blood in controlled doses and their body will naturally filter it, and it also means a vampire won’t give any of their victims any untoward diseases.

Akaashi had told him that, the first time they drank from him. Koutarou reaslies now that he doesn’t know if it’s true; mistrusting Akaashi is such a foreign concept that he never thought to double-check. It’s too late to do so now, though; the vampire moves closer, fangs bared in a way that makes Koutarou shiver despite himself. The guy doesn’t comment; he’s already pegged Koutarou as a pervert. His breath ghosts over Koutarou’s neck, only slightly warmer than the chilly evening air. Koutarou gulps, muscles tensing in preparation.

Then - two pricks, sharp needlepoints digging through his skin to get to the ruby veins underneath, and Koutarou’s heart threatens to escape his chest, pounding so hard it hurts, and he exhales harshly and pushes the guy away, arms straining with the effort. “No - stop!”

“What,” the vampire starts, trying to keep Koutarou close, but he’s not starving enough to be a threat. Koutarou pushes him off, hand clamping down on the side of his neck as he shakes his head again and again, jaw and throat hurting from different reasons entirely.

“No - no, I can’t, I can’t -”

“Are you okay?” the vampire asks, but the lump in Koutarou’s throat is far too big for him to speak. The sky is filling with colourful light, sparks flying across the dark sky, and Koutarou has to get away from here - he’s too vulnerable, too exposed, and everything is going wrong, blood thrumming against his fingers as he runs -

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi opens their door with a confused frown, quickly turning to concern as they take Koutarou in.

“Akaashi,” Koutarou pants, tears pressing at the corners of his eyes. His scarf is sticky and his hands are blue, and everything is awful, so, so awful. “Akaashi, I’m so _sorry…_ ”

“Why are you sorry? Bokuto-san, come inside, you look awful.” Akaashi ushers him into their apartment, and Koutarou goes without resistance, letting Akaashi take his coat and shoes off and sit him on the couch.

“I cheated - well, I didn’t actually, but it _feels_ like - I was with someone else and I was gonna let him feed off me, and _I_ felt like I was cheating, even if you don’t, and it hurt and now I’m - so sad, and I’m really sorry -”

Akaashi’s frown deepens. They tug at Koutarou’s scarf. “Let me see.” Koutarou holds onto it, reluctant, until Akaashi says, “I can smell it, Koutarou, you can’t hide it from me. Let me clean it.”

“I don't want you to,” Koutarou protests, but his fingers are limp around the fabric, and it goes easily when Akaashi pulls. He tilts his head, closing his eyes as Akaashi's cool fingers touch the line of his neck. After a moment, they're replaced by a damp cotton wool, dabbing at the drying blood until it can be covered by a plaster. There is no anger in their touch - no emotion at all. Koutarou cannot open his eyes, too afraid of what he might see.

“Why did you do this?” Akaashi says finally, breaking the painful silence. “You hurt yourself.”

“Not on purpose,” Koutarou replies quickly, “I just wanted.. I wanted…”

“What?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Koutarou says, hearing his own voice break and curling in on himself, ashamed. “I don’t know, Akaashi.”

Silence, again. Koutarou opens his eyes, just enough to watch Akaashi’s hands where they now lie in their lap; he cannot raise them any higher. “Let me get you something to eat,” Akaashi says after another moment, standing up. Their hands disappear from view. “You’ve still lost blood.”

The television turns on, and Akaashi changes the channel to a news anchor in Tokyo, describing the turn-out at Shibuya crossing and the larget temples for _joya no kane._ The volume is low, and the woman’s voice is a murmur, white noise more than anything Koutarou can focus on, but he still stares at her blearily. He should’ve gone to a shrine, not here. He should’ve gone anywhere but here.

Akaashi comes back, the couch dipping beside Koutarou, and they hand him a bowl of satsuma slices. “Here.”

Koutarou takes the bowl, bringing a few slices to his mouth. “Thank you.”

Akaashi’s hands are neatly folded in their lap, but their knuckles are white with tension, their hands gripping the other tightly. When he finally lifts his eyes, Akaashi is staring at him, a furrow between their brows. “Do you want to talk?”

The satsuma is tangy on his tongue. He nods, swallowing it with difficulty. “I… I can’t keep coming here, I think.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen for a moment, and the knuckles of their fingers make a quiet pop as they pull at them. “Why not?”

At a shrine in Tokyo, the bell starts ringing. Koutarou eats another slice of satsuma. “I’m getting weird about it. Us. Getting… Invested. ‘N you don’t want that, so.” He shrugs. Eyes down. Breath following the metronome of the bell. He never liked ripping plasters off, but he’s become used to it by now.

“Bokuto-san…”

Koutarou shakes his head, the steadiness of his heart threatening to buckle under Akaashi’s quiet tone. “No - I mean, it’s okay, I’m the one being… being silly and - messing things up. You don’t have to say anything. I don’t know why I came here, even, I should just leave -”

“Don’t leave,” Akaashi interrupts him, and their voice is firmer and louder now, drowning out the bell tolling. “Please, stay here.” They stand up, and Koutarou looks at them in confusion as they go to their bedroom, returning with white leather he’s seen so many times. He puts his bowl of satsuma slices down when they hand it over, gesturing for him to read it.

Koutarou opens the notebook hesitantly, feeling the well-loved leather binding. This is a world separate from him, a ritual he has never taken part in before; or so he thinks, until he sees the scattered thoughts on the page. There are no paragraphs, barely any full sentences, just fragmented thoughts:

 _he's so much_ \- _I could kill him - if I killed him he would be mine - I want him - mine - I want him too badly - it's too dangerous - he could be mine - he wants to be - I would kill him - I can't kill him - I can't want him -_

“You knew,” Koutarou exhales, index finger following the traditional strokes of Akaashi’s penmanship. _I want to devour him._ “This whole time, you knew.”

Akaashi looks guarded, still, their eyes unreadable and their shoulders set. They're afraid. “Not quite, but yes. Very soon, I needed an outlet.”

“You didn't wanna act on it.” Koutarou abruptly closes the book and hands it back, looking away. “If you still don't -”

“No.” Akaashi pushes the notebook back against his chest. “I do. I have to.”

Koutarou frowns, his hands uselessly grasping the book. “What does that even mean? You don't have to do anything -”

“I have to have you,” Akaashi interrupts, their voice so firm that Koutarou instinctively steels himself. They catch the motion, reaching out to thumb along Koutarou’s shoulder, and he's soothed despite himself, leaning into the touch. “I know I am… difficult. And I don't mean… you can say no to me, always, and I will listen. But I don't want to go without you.”

“You're not afraid?”

Akaashi smiles, small but true. “I'm terrified. That makes us even, though, doesn't it?”

Koutarou nods and swallows. “I can’t go back,” he warns them. “If - I can’t… I can’t take this back, _you_ can’t take this back. Are you still, I mean, do you still want to?”

“Yes,” Keiji says.

In a low rush of breath, Koutarou exhales. “Shit,” he says. “Can I kiss you?”

Keiji nods, and they meet in the middle, limbs intertwining as their lips meet.

Even though Koutarou is taller than them, Keiji is the one pulling him along to the bedroom, their hands and lips overwhelming as they roam his body, both of them stumbling clumsily down the corridor. “Want you,” Koutarou pants into their mouth, and Keiji nods, looking more affected than Koutarou has ever seen them except in the midst of orgasm.

“I want to see you,” they breathe, and they sit down at the edge of the bed, pulling him down onto them by his hips so he's straddling them. Koutarou’s hands fall naturally onto Keiji's shoulders, but they only rest there a second before impish fingers climb under his shirt, pushing his arms up so Keiji can take it off him. “Too many layers,” they groan when they're met with his undershirt. Koutarou shrugs, embarrassed despite himself, and grabs the hem of his t-shirt to pull it over his head.

“It's cold,” he means to say, but he doesn't finish before Keiji's hands are on him, making him gasp and shiver in ticklish surprise.

“Always so sensitive,” Keiji hums as they run their hands over his back and his sides, fingers dipping into the grooves left by taut muscle. “Gorgeous.”

Koutarou smiles, and Keiji’s fingers run over his cheeks too, pressing into the dimples his smile makes.

“Cute, too,” Keiji says.

Koutarou flushes. He seeks praise like a moth seeks flame, but he never knows what to do when he receives it, particularly not when it's delivered in Keiji's even baritone. Their hands cup his biceps, moving over his chest and thumbing at his nipples, and they laugh when he jumps again. “You’re too handsy,” Koutarou complains, ears burning.

“I’ve waited a long time to savour you,” Keiji replies easily, and the blush spreads from Koutarou’s ears to his cheeks, eyes lowering to look at their grey cotton shirt, following the lines of it across their chest, the way it curves around the hollow under their small breasts, the straight line of their stomach.

To tell the truth, Koutarou feels the same way. He never has the opportunity to look his fill of Keiji, too wary of what his gaze might reveal, but he has nothing left to expose now. He has no reason to deny himself.

Keiji’s hair is soft between his fingers, black as ink and just as flowing. It brushes the tops of their shoulders, wavy where it falls, but the shorter hair curls around their face to frame it. Stray bits of fringe cut across their full brows and catch on their lashes, which again are framing dark green eyes trained on Koutarou’s own body. Koutarou pulls one hand out of their hair to follow the straight slope of their nose, small and nothing like his own. His touch makes them smile, white, sharp teeth peeking out from dusky rose lips.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you,” Koutarou says sincerely. “You’re not the only one who has been waiting.”

Keiji’s cheeks darken to match their lips, like sun-kissed sand dunes, but they don’t seem embarrassed, their fingers clenching and unclenching at Koutarou’s waist.

Koutarou cocks his head, confused. “Keiji?” Are you okay?”

“It is very hard not to take you,” Keiji admits, looking pained.

Koutarou inhales sharply, thighs pressing together around Keiji’s hips. “I wouldn’t mind - I mean, you know that…”

“I won’t harm you,” Keiji says lowly. It is meant as a caution, a promise, but Koutarou hears it and hears only the truth.

“I know,” he says. Keiji groans, turning them both so they can press him down onto the bed, urging his legs apart with a thigh and burying their face in his chest.

“You damnably sincere humans,” Keiji mutters. Koutarou’s answering laugh turns into a moan midway through as Keiji presses their thigh against his groin, their dangerously sharp teeth scraping the tender skin around his nipple.

“ _Ah_ \- what are you gonna do, punish me?”

“I should,” Keiji grumbles. They sit up - Koutarou lets out a sigh of disappointment, but their fingers pull at his waistband, urging his pants off. “Let me see more of you.”

“You know I can’t say no to you,” Koutarou replies breathlessly, the teasing nature of his reply ruined by how eager he is to lift his hips so Keiji can pull down his pants and underwear in one fell swoop.

“Good. I wouldn’t take no for an answer.” They’re teasing in turn, but not entirely, and the words draw goosebumps along Koutarou’s arms.

Keiji’s long fingers run over his abdomen, following the trail of hair from his belly button down to where it spreads out, pale curls cropped close to the skin. Koutarou’s thighs spread without his permission, eager for Keiji’s touch to continue downward. Feather light, their fingers slide against him, cold compared to the burning heat of his want.

“Gorgeous,” Keiji breathes, and Koutarou pulses against their hands, breathing unsteadily. Keiji rarely speaks once they’re in bed, and certainly not like _that…_ Koutarou doesn’t know if he can bear to hear it, or if he needs it to stay alive. “Says you,” he responds - a weak rebuttal, if entirely accurate. The sight of Keiji between his legs, eyes dark and hot and lips shining where they’ve bitten them, is a sight he will keep with him for many lonely nights.

Keiji’s grin is smug, showing off their teeth. They bend to kiss the line where Koutarou’s thigh meets his hip, and then they follow it inward, mouth leaving both bruises and kisses in its wake. “I shouldn’t taste you,” they murmur, tongue running along the taut muscle. Koutarou knows they do not mean his skin. He also knows he cannot agree with them - in fact, he has heard few better ideas than that one.

He tells Keiji so, running his fingers through their hair, and adds impulsively, “pretty please?”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Keiji says, voice soft and dangerous. “You begging. Do it again.”

“Please,” Koutarou says again after a moment, flush rising to his cheeks. It was meant as a joke, but it is suddenly very much not, and the word struggles to form on his tongue.

“Please... what?”

“Please - fuck, Keiji, come on,” he pleads, but Keij isi unrelenting, still and waiting. “Please, please eat me out.”

“With pleasure,” Keiji responds, and they grin wickedly again. Koutarou manages to stifle his moan at the sight, but the one after that is a lost cause when Keiji hitches his thighs up, the only warning he gets before their tongue is on him. They lick him open, spreading his lips carefully with their fingers, but their teeth still catch on his sensitive skin - Koutarou cries out, gripping their hair like a lifeline.

Their fingers expose him to the heat of their breath as it whispers over his cunt, already tender nerves aching for stimulation. _“Fuck,”_ Koutarou groans, pushing Keiji’s face harder into his cunt and wordlessly begging for more. Keiji lifts their head. Light catches on the slick on their lips, making Koutarou whimpers and blood pulse through him. Keiji closes their eyes briefly and inhales, distracted.

“Put your hands somewhere else,” they tell him when they can speak again, a gentle rebuke. “It’s dangerous for me not to be in control.”

Reluctantly, Koutarou disentangles his hands from Keiji’s hair, resting them on his abdomen. “I trust you,” he says quietly, a last-ditch effort to change their mind.

“I know,” Keiji responds, something like gentleness in their tone. “That’s why this is important.” They hold Koutarou’s gaze until he nods, and then they lower their head again, soft tongue licking broadly at him from his entrance to his clit without letting Koutarou pause to properly enjoy it. It’s a cruel and unusual tease, and Koutarou falls backs with a moan, hands splaying out on his stomach to keep from urging them to stay in one place.

Over the sound of his own thudding heart, he can hear their quiet moans as they lick at him, the mattress shifting as they rock against it. How cruel, that Keiji enjoys this so much, when they’ve never done it before - briefly, Koutarou mourns the lost opportunities over the last months, when he could’ve had this, and he never even knew. Their tongue teases at his entrance, slick and obscene, and Koutarou arches into it, moaning. His thighs are trembling with the force of keeping them still and open, but he can’t help bucking with a cry as Keiji slides a finger into him.

 _“Fuck,”_ he moans again, because their name is still to intimate, and he swears again and again as their teeth catch on his clit. “Fuck, fuck, A-- Keiji, I’m -”

“Then do,” Keiji says hoarsely, lips wrapping around his swollen clit to suck on it. An orgasm Koutarou didn’t even notice was building spills through him - he cries out, thighs pressing tight around Keiji’s head, and their tongue and teeth against him makes the whole world spark into colour, until he’s not sure whether his eyes are open or not.

Only slowly does he return to his body, noting the hurting in his throat, his trembling thighs as they fall apart again, the sheen of sweat on his stomach. He blinks at Keiji, one eyelid slower than the other. Keiji sits up, pulling their finger out of him, and grins. They look more smug than Koutarou’s ever seen him, and he smiles back, dazed and loopy with pleasure. Keiji is smiling so widely, and their face is covered in his slick, and Koutarou wants them so bad that it’s hard to breathe.

“I feel woozy,” Koutarou mumbles, unable to take his eyes off them. “Will you fuck me?”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Keiji asks evenly, but Koutarou can see them shiver with self-restraint even through his hazy rose-dipped eyes.

“Please,” Koutarou hears himself say hoarsely. The word comes easily now. He is boundaryless, limitless, an existence that fades and merges and never separates. Keiji spreads themselves over him so quickly that the mattress doesn’t have time to respond to their weight, and Koutarou is laughing when they kiss him, fangs splitting his lower lip in their eagerness. They sit back, concerned, but he sucks it into his mouth and grins at them. “Please,” he says again, and Keiji smiles, exasperated and wanting.

They pull off their clothes, letting Koutarou run his hands over their naked back so he can feel blemishes and freckles he never noticed before. It feels like he is touching Keiji for the first time, the thousandth time, like they’re strangers and soulmates and everything in-between. The head of their cock rubs against the head of his entrance, and then they sink into him, stretching him around them and making him gasp. Every rock of their hips feels more intense, more present, and he feels so good that it’s scary, like jumping without knowing what’s waiting on the ground. It feels like when Keiji is feeding him fruit, like when their fingers stroke his thigh -

“Did you - oh - Keiji, did you drink from me?”

Keiji’s hips stutter and then slow to a stop. They are shuddering again, like an earthquake only they can feel, but it is not arousal they are suppressing now. “I would _never,”_ Keiji says, white hot with fury, “not without permission, and not after you’ve been drank from. I would not risk your life, Koutarou!”

“I know,” Koutarou says softly. Keiji doesn’t scare him any more, but he is sad they’ve stopped moving. “But I wouldn’t mind. You always have permission.”

“That’s dangerous,” Keiji says, but their danger is fading, the initial roaring fire at the perceived accusation shrinking to a tender flame.

“Besides,” Koutarou continues, “No one’s drank from me since you did, so it would be safe.”

“That’s not true,” Keiji says. “Earlier.”

Koutarou frowns and shakes his head. “He didn’t.” Keiji breathes out like they’ve been punched. “He was going to, but I said no. Not at first,” he rushes to add, because Keiji is looking thunderous, “at first I said yes, but then I changed my mind.”

“Why…?”

“I wanted you to be the only one,” Koutarou mumbles, turning his head away. From the corner of his eye, he can see the last of Keiji’s anger being overwritten by something intense, something breathtaking and possessive and fond. Their hand tilts his head back towards them firmly, but the kiss that follows is achingly loving.

“I adore you,” Keiji murmurs into his mouth. Their hands cup his hips and they begin to move again, torturously slow as they press into him. “You want to be mine, don’t you?”

“So bad,” Koutarou admits breathlessly. He tries to twist in their grip, urging them to move faster, but Keiji’s inhuman strength holds him captive effortlessly. “God, Keiji, come on…”

“I like seeing you like this.” Keiji sounds like heaven and hell in one, making Koutarou kick his legs out in restless want. “All desperate, and only for me.”

“I _know,”_ Koutarou moans, “it’s terrible, so terrible, Keiji, you tease…”

“I wouldn’t tease you if it didn’t make you look so good,” Keiji says, and something about the frankness of the compliment makes it sound like fact, rather than an opinion Koutarou can dismiss as misguided. He squirms, unable to meet their eyes, pleasantly bothered. Keiji finally takes pity on him, their thumbs stroking over his hipbones.

“Say please again.”

Koutarou’s head twists around sharply, eyes sparking with frustration. It’s not a joke anymore, not a silly thing he can just say without thinking about it, and Keiji’s smirk shows him that they’re fully aware of what they’re doing to him. _“Again?_ No way.”

“Then I won’t move,” Keiji shrugs. Instantly, they have won, but Koutarou waits a frew more moments before he complies, for the sake of his already battered pride.

“Fine,” he huffs. His thighs twitch, revealing how eager he is, and Keiji smiles at the sight. “... please.”

True to their word, Koutarou only has to say it once before Keiji lifts his hips up, sinking into him and making them both moan. Keiji fucks him like they’ve never fucked him before, hard and fast. Their grip on his hips is possessive, forceful, both grounding Koutarou and lifting him high, high, high above. Hazily, Koutarou knows that his mouth is wet and slack, and that he is making noise, but the sound of Keiji fucking into him again and again is deafening in its pleasure, overwhelming him until all he can do is lie back and be taken. Everything is Keiji, all he can see and hear and feel is Keiji, his Keiji, Keiji who wants him, Keiji who adores him, and he adores them too, adores them and wants them and needs them, like this, just like this, forever, until the end of time -

Until -

\- the -

\- end -

“Koutarou..?” The voice is distant, but coming closer. A hand strokes through his hair. He has hair, and a face, and eyes.

He opens them. Keiji is there, forehead furrowed.

“Hello,” Koutarou says hoarsely.

“Hello,” Keiji answers. “Are you okay?”

It takes a second for Koutarou to relearn how to move his head, but once he figures it out, he nods vigorously.

“Good.” Keiji’s brow eases in relief, their eyes warming again.

“I passed out,” Koutarou realises slowly.

“Not for long, but yes.”

“You fucked me so good I passed out,” Koutarou says, staring at Keiji with amazement. “Are you a god?”

Keiji looks away, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I bothered worrying about you,” they huff, cheeks dusty red again. “You’re clearly fine.”

“More than,” Koutarou reassures them, watching Keiji’s shoulders lower as he says it. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thank me? Did I set that low a standard, previously…?”

Koutarou shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says immediately. “Just - thank you for doing this with me. I know you didn’t want to.”

“I was a fool,” Keiji replies quietly. Neither of them can meet the other’s gaze, a ridiculous contrast to the come drying on Koutarou’s thigh. He’s still naked, he notices finally, but Keiji has pulled a blanket over them both to ward off the winter air. They don’t feel temperature like he does, and the act of consideration warms him even more than the blanket.

“I think I love you,” Koutarou says, daring to raise his gaze. Keiji looks back, eyes wide. Their mouth is open, a gape more dignified than anything Koutarou’s ever done. “You don’t have to say it back or anything. I just thought you should know.”

After a moment, Keiji closes his mouth and nods. “Thank you. I hope I’ll be able to say it back soon.”

“Me too,” Koutarou says, smiling. Keiji settles against his side, and they fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments, enjoying each other’s presence.

Finally, Keiji breaks it. “Do you remember when you asked me what my favourite blood type was?” they ask, hand running over Koutarou’s chest. He hums at the touch.

“Yeah?”

“I found out what it is,” Keiji says with the utmost seriousness. “It’s blood type U.”

Koutarou blinks, and then he laughs and laughs and laughs, until Keiji sits up to kiss the laughter from his mouth. He can feel the smile on their lips, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter [@lemonbrute](http://twitter.com/lemonbrute) and nsfw [@mnstrfck](http://twitter.com/mnstrfck) (feel free to request).


End file.
